


Turn me down

by spacegirl11



Category: Guns N' Roses
Genre: Alternate Universe, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Prostitution
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-27
Updated: 2020-10-27
Packaged: 2021-03-09 04:06:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,021
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27218383
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spacegirl11/pseuds/spacegirl11
Summary: In the middle of July 1981, Bill finally left his home with only the backpack on his shoulders and a promise to succeed, while his parents slept down the hallway and were none the wiser.
Relationships: Axl Rose/Izzy Stradlin, Duff McKagan/Slash
Comments: 3
Kudos: 17





	1. Maybe the way that I'm living is killing me

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this during August, I missed going out and my vacations were ruined, so this is the end result, cross-posted on Rocfick but I want to upload it here, after two months I finally finished it and I hope y'all like it haha, the title comes from Julia Jacklin's song of the same name, I highly recommend listening to it, it makes me cry every time, thanks for reading, stay safe.

In the middle of July 1981, Bill finally left his home with only the backpack on his shoulders and a promise to succeed, while his parents slept down the hallway and were none the wiser.

He was ready to leave his father’s fists, the cow shit, those uncomfortable wooden pews of Sunday school and choir practice behind. The redhead wouldn’t say goodbye if he did, his siblings would convince him to stay. His mother already knew it will eventually happen, and nothing she said could make him stay any longer in that fucking house.

Fearing that next time he would have to be carried out of that damn place in a body bag or by the police, although prison sounded like a good idea right now, a bed and a meal three times a day.

He made it to Chicago with half the money in his pocket and the dream trip to L. A required more money he could spend; Bill is dammed if he let another weird guy take him to a dingy motel.

The bar he came across wasn’t anything special, neon lights and cheap liquor, it’s been repeating the same songs since he arrived, and if he has to listen to Poison one more time, he will punch someone in the face.

He takes a seat on a stool in front of the bar, can’t even afford a beer diluted with water that tasted more like warm piss, bikers, truckers and other men no older than forty surrounded him.

Dear old daddy, it’s not here to give a long lecture about how it’s Adam and Eve, not Adam and Steve.

Bill took it as a last big ‘fuck you’ to Stephen; the bastard had no control over him anymore.

Some of them immediately perked up, looking at him like he is the hottest piece of ass to come from that door, watching hungrily, as if everyone wanted a piece of him, and thinking about it, he might be.

If his stepfather could see him now, him William Bailey, sucking cocks in dirty bars from city to city to make ends meet.

He is so damn tired, his jaw aches, and there are bruises on his knees; the boy gets out, can't bear the stench of sweat and cigarette smoke; he spots a beat-up Chevelle parked just outside the alley, its paint old and worn out and the car saw better days.

The redhead approaches it, looks both ways to see if anyone is watching him, and tries to open the door to the back seat.

It opens, and cautiously the ginger slides; he needs a brief nap before returning to his hustle; the redhead wraps himself with his pink leather jacket and closes his eyes, immediately falling asleep.

A commotion outside the car wakes him up, getting up in a hurry and hitting his head with the hood.

The door opens, and a dark figure climbs into the pilot’s seat; the redhead panics, breathing became shallow and doesn’t make any sound. Had seen enough horror movies to know what happens next.

The figure drops the keys but hurries to find them; soon he puts it in the ignition; the car roars to life and hits the brakes, speeding out of its parking spot, leaving the bar behind.

“Shit...” mutters the redhead and at once covers his mouth with both hands, too late, the figure snaps his head to look back at him, it’s a young boy no older than 20 like himself with light brown hair and big doe eyes that inspects the redhead with bewilderment.

“Who... the fuck are you doing in my car?” the brunet shakes his head, and his gaze returns to the streets, but the ginger feels his eyes burning in the rearview mirror.

“Sorry man; wanted to sleep, and your car was open, not my fault,” the redhead raises his hands in a surrendering gesture, “I’m Bill.”

“Jeff- I mean, Izzy,” his hands grip tightly the steering wheel; driving through the desolated streets of Chicago. “Where do I leave you?”

“I’m staying in a motel near here. I’ll probably return to the bar. I was working” Bill scratches the nape of his neck and looks down at his old cowboy boots with a hole in the sole; Izzy shakes his head vehemently. His tongue darts across his bottom lip.

“Sorry, Angel, can’t go back to that bar,” a slight smile crept up the corners of his mouth. “shouldn’t have fallen asleep during workin’ hours.”

That midwestern accent of the brunet is like having a little piece from home; it reminds him of warm sunny days in the train tracks back home.

Izzy patted the pockets of his denim jacket, searching for the pack of cigarettes. But he must’ve forgotten them when he bolted out of the bar because he refused to pay for the mediocre beer he has been drinking. The redhead takes out his pack and offers him one, which Izzy took hesitantly.

“I don’t work at the bar. I work on my own; I can give you a blowjob, for breaking into your car,” Bill turns to look the other way, his cheeks reddened, can feel it on the tips of his ears, if that’s what he has to do so the other boy won’t take him to a police station, he will do it.

“What? ‘m no fairy, dude well I don’t think I am” the brunet’s voice is low, the redhead did an obscene gesture with his hand and, the brunet pales, waiting for it to be a joke, beside him the strange guy gives a belly laugh, all deep and thunderous.

He grips the steering wheel and turns to look at the weird redhead.

“That’s what they all said.” Bill bit his bottom lip and bats his eyelashes; Izzy chokes on his saliva, coughing violently. The brunet pulls off the street and kills off the engine, turning to look at the redhead.

“Ride’s over, princess. I won’t keep you away from work” Izzy makes a hand gesture, his cheeks burning with shame. The ginger’s eyes widened his jaw drops.

“Are you seriously gonna leave me out here?” the redhead scoffs and opens the door, annoyed.

The brunet says nothing and shrugs his shoulders, finally lighting the cigarette with a pack of matches. For a minute, his features are clouded by the grey smoke.

Bill rolls his sea-foam green eyes and slams the door. Izzy furrows his brows and shakes his head; he’s muttering something around the cigarette.

He starts the ignition and speeds into the streets; the redhead flips him off and stuffs his hands in his pink leather jacket, only to realize he left the pack of cigarettes in the backseat.

He’s not that far away from the bar, but he’s already so damn tired; the ginger groans and kicks a can of soda before making his way back.

He tries not to think about the brunet with the Chevelle for the rest of the night, but somehow those sparkly eyes never leave his mind.

**. . .**

The lobby’s deserted but, Izzy can hear the T. V coming from the small room next to the front desk; he walks towards the stairs and straight to his room.

He’s not tired in the slightest, the words from the redhead still fresh in his mind; the brunet curses as he feels his traitorous dick stir at the thought of said weirdo on his knees.

Izzy undresses and jumps straight into the shower, opens the faucet to the chilly water, ideal to help with the hard-on he’s sporting; Izzy runs a hand through his face, fucking weirdo, and his stupid attractive face.

Later, when he’s in his soft pants and a ratty old sleeveless shirt, he collapses on top of the bed, his hand slides down his pants, he teases the velvety skin of his cock, fingers feel impossibly cold on his flush skin.

He thrusts into his hand. All he can imagine are a pair of green eyes and a devilish smirk, it’s the best orgasm he had in a while, but he also feels ashamed, cheeks burning up.

Izzy glances at the bright red numbers from the clock on the bedside table, it’s almost five in the morning, and the brunet gets up and lights a joint to pass the time.

He’s not staying in Chicago for another day, the promise of sunny California at the end of his journey is enough to fuel him.

Outside of his room, the hallways are illuminated by yellow fluorescent lights, mosquitoes flying near the bulbs.

There’s a white plastic chair, and the brunet plops down on it, a joint between his fingers, the smell of weed permeating in the air.

Somehow Izzy can’t stop repeating the conversation he had with the redhead. Something is alluring in his soft, sharp features, the way his green eyes seemed to look through him and pierce his soul; the brunet shakes his head and gives the joint two puffs.

There’s a gentle breeze when Bill finally arrives at the motel; he’s dragging his feet and is considering taking off his boots and walk barefoot the rest of the way towards his room.

He reeks of smoke and sweat, the remnants of the cheap cologne still on his skin.

“Are you following me? Want to call the police on me?” the redhead hisses and takes his room keys out.

“No, this is the only motel I can afford, don’t need to be a dickhead. You still up for that offer?” it’s the weed talking for Izzy, and he’s sure of that if he wasn’t high and horny as hell he wouldn’t propose that to the ginger.

“What? You reconsider and decided you want me to suck your dick?” Bill laughs, throwing his head back and fidgets with the key to his room “50 bucks and, I don’t want wandering hands; if you try something else, you’ll be in a wheelchair the rest of your miserable life, are we clear?”

Izzy nods fast and swallows his Adam’s apple bobbing with the motion. Finally, the redhead opens the door and gestures for the brunet to enter; the room is an exact copy of the one he’s staying at, the same scratchy comforter stitch together from old t-shirts.

The ginger takes his jacket off and drops it on the chair near the door; his skin is milky white, a perfect contrast for his red, shiny hair. If Izzy focuses enough on his features, he can almost pass by a girl and he doesn’t feel that guilty.

“Sit on the bed or do you prefer to stand?” Bill walks towards his red backpack; he still has two boxes of granola bars and some water bottles left; he produces a box of condoms and hands one to Izzy.

The brunet shifts his weight from one foot to another and glances at the room; suddenly, the comforter it’s far more interesting than the beautiful creature in front of him.

“Wrap it, big boy; time’s running and, I want to take a shower and sleep.”

Bill can tell that the brunet’s nervous; he keeps glancing at everything in the room but him, he smirks, there’s a high chance that the boy is a blushing virgin and the redhead thinks it’s cute, he smiles reassuringly, a hand on Izzy’s shoulder, rubbing it soothingly

“It’s your first time, sweetheart?” asks Bill and crosses his arms. That smile still plastered on those pink lips, Izzy swallows and fidgets with the condom, tearing the plastic in one corner.

“I’ve never been with a guy like this before” Izzy’s voice is nothing more than a whisper; Bill gets closer to him and places a soft kiss on his cheek.

The redhead’s lips are chapped and rough on his delicate skin; the flower child’s heart beats steadily, fast, thumping against his ribs.

Bill pulls away; before he drops to his knees, taking the condom in his own able hands.

He caresses the brunet’s hips and slides his hands in the fabric of his pajama pants; the redhead raises a brow at him when he realizes Izzy is not wearing anything underneath.

“Someone’s eager,” the redhead’s voice is husky, and that makes Izzy’s dick stir in attention. Bill gives a few pumps to get him hard and slip the condom on his aching erection.

The brunet can hear the blood rushing in his ears; the ginger teases the head of his cock, giving the slit a few licks; he’s got a nice cock, the best he’s seen in the entire night.

Izzy’s skin is flushed. He closes his eyes and starts thinking of long legs, soft hair, and a pair of breasts, but all he can picture is the redhead and how wrong it is to enjoy it.

His stomach’s churning and his breath’s shallow and labored, a chill runs down his spine, it’s too much for him, he pulls at the redhead’s hair to get his attention, the smaller boy looks at him confused as Izzy pulls the condom off his softening dick and pulls the pants up.

“I’m... I’m sorry, you’re just wasting your time, sorry, look you’re handsome as hell and, I have no doubt that you give good head, but I can’t do it, I really don’t,” before the brunet can storm off the room and leave the redhead alone, Izzy pulls the crumpled 50-dollar bill from his sweaty hand and leaves it next to the T. V stand.

“Wait, take your money, we didn’t do anything, I can’t take it from you,” Bill looks apologetic, his face softens, and offers Izzy a gentle smile “you can stay and spend the night, think I still have a box of cheap wine, it’s the least I can do.”

The brunet sighs and sags his shoulders, sits down on the bed, taking a pillow between his hands, and hugging it tightly.

The weirdo rummages through his backpack and finds the box of wine; it’s the cheapest and, Izzy might as well be drinking sewage water at that point.

“I will take a shower, watch T. V or something, man” Bill gives him a thumbs up before disappearing behind the bathroom door.

Izzy collapses on the bed, his hair splayed in every direction. The T. V is on, and he’s not even paying attention to whatever program is on; the noise is enough to drown his thoughts; the brunet’s feeling embarrassed.

It’s not the first time he gets a blowjob, but he’s used to getting them from girls; he made a fool of himself in front of the redhead.

The sound from the shower stops, and Bill opens the door, steam fogging up the room; the redhead walks out with an oversized t-shirt and sweats around his slim hips, his hair darker and dripping onto his shoulders.

He smiles at Izzy and takes the wine, giving it a big gulp before handing it to the brunet.

“Why do you work doin’ that?” Izzy berates himself mentally and closes his eyes, waiting for the redhead to hit him and kick him out of his room, never to see him again.

Bill slides beside him on the bed, eyes droopy, and a hand under the pillow.

“It makes me money and, I’ll keep doing it, at least until I arrive at L. A or until a murderer kills me and they find my body all bloated on a ditch,” Bill laughs bitterly and tired, snuggling closer to the yellowish pillowcase.

“Then why did you keep doin’ it?” Izzy should keep his mouth shut. He knows it’s rude to ask those types of questions when he just met the boy, but it’s too late; the ginger sighs and opens those green eyes like poison.

“It started in S. t Louis, I was hitchhiking, and a guy gave me a ride, he invited me to sleepover in his hotel room, I fell asleep and, woke up in the middle of the night with my pants down and his hand inside my boxers, pig wanted to rape me, I punched him and threatened him with a razor, he said that if I blow him, he would pay me for the inconvenience, didn’t have a choice,”

Bill grips the comforter tightly, his fist-shaking and bottom lip quivering, tears spilling over his cheeks; he wipes his eyes roughly so the brunet couldn’t see them.

The brunet feels an ache in his chest, like little needles prickling on his tender skin, he’s not rolling in a pile of money, but he can make it to L. A just fine.

He has his car and all of his belongings are safe in the trunk; meanwhile, the boy beside him has to risk his life to fulfill his dream. A thought takes over him, it won’t leave his mind, no matter how much he pushes it away.

Bill falls asleep, his little snores filling the room, his own eyes feel heavy and, before Izzy can leave for his room, he falls asleep beside the ginger, the T. V a distant sound as sleep wraps him with its arms.

**. . .**

Bill wakes up and bolts up when he realizes he’s not in his childhood bedroom, almost hitting his head with the headboard and blinks twice to brush off the sleep.

Izzy’s already awake and dressed, sitting on the bed’s edge brushing his hair; his impossibly hazel eyes are on him, making him squirm under his intense gaze.

The redhead kicks the comforter, stretching until his back pops and glances at the clock, it’s too early to be awake, and all he wants to do is crawl under the covers and sleep for the rest of the day, Bill looks down at the carpet.

“C’mon, I’ll invite you some breakfast; you can’t leave with an empty stomach.”

Bill wants to protest; he doesn’t have enough money to buy food, doesn’t want Izzy to spend money on him, not after the events of last night; the redhead makes a strand of hair aside, but the brunet looks convinced to invite him for breakfast, and Bill feels that he won’t accept a no for an answer.

“But I’ll pay for my food, so you don’t have to worry” Bill can see that the brunet’s beaming and nods before going back to his room to get dress.

The little cafeteria is a little spot in the center of the city, families are having breakfast, and lone older guys drinking coffee while reading the newspaper.

They sit down at a booth, and an older server pours the dark, scorching liquid in white ceramic cups.

“Where are you going now?” questions Izzy sipping the steaming liquid, pouring half a packet of sugar and a bit of creamer in front of him; Bill’s looking through the window, stirring his cup, lost in his world.

“I’ll probably hitchhike and stay in whatever town they left me” the redhead puts his hand under his chin; the reality of the situation settled in.

He’s passing by, the beaches in California are the only thing he cares about, a server takes their orders; Bill wants to ignore the way his stomach growls at the promise of food.

Perhaps it’s the misery cloud that seems to hang above him; Izzy scratches the nape of his neck and looks at the boy.

Bill looks confused and sips his coffee. He raises a brow, amused at what the brunet has to say; last night was interesting, to say the least.

Since Bill hit the road and started his business, no one had backed out, no one until he met the elusive brunet; that piqued his curiosity and left him wanting to know him more.

“Come with me, we’re both going to L. A; I have a car, you don’t have to hitchhike anymore, problem solved, and once we arrive, we go on our separate ways,” Izzy did a hand gesture and tilted his head to eye the smaller man, he would probably regret that later, but his mom raised a decent man and she wouldn’t let him leave this kid alone on his own “No strings attached.”

“You’re kidding me? I have no problems hitchhiking; I can take care of myself,” the ginger’s drumming his fingers over the table.

Izzy’s offer seems genuine, and he wants to accept but can’t help feeling guilty and ashamed.

“I can’t, you’re too nice and I appreciate it, but don’t worry, man.”

“Bill, c’mon, I wouldn’t let you be murdered and found in a ditch somewhere outside the town, come with me. Once in California, we can pretend we don’t know each other,” Bill looks at the brunet’s brown doe eyes and curses himself.

His eyes are even bigger, his bottom lip quivers; he fears that Izzy will burst into tears. The redhead feels like he just kicked a puppy.

“Ok, when I have enough money, I’ll repay you and, I’m not asking, understood?” the redhead’s tone should terrify him; Izzy’s relieved that he accepted his offer.

Izzy leaves Chicago with the trunk fuller, the red backpack near his drum kit, and the redhead in the passenger seat.

He fidgets with the radio until he finds something Bill likes, Queen is singing, and Bill smiles, moving his feet at the beat of the music; the brunet doesn’t feel alone since he left his old life behind.


	2. You're so Golden

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a strange fascination with roadside attractions, and apparently, there are three largest balls of twine in the U.S, Kansas, Wisconsin, and Minnesota, thought it was an interesting detail, also, sorry for any mistake, I'm not from the U.S and all I have is google maps, well enjoy, thanks for reading

Izzy expects the redhead to be a decent companion, but he’s already regretting his decision. So far, since they left Chicago, he had to stop in three gas stations because Bill wants to use the toilet and refused to urinate in the empty plastic bottles or because he wanted to stack up more snacks.

The brunet’s waiting for him outside. He leans on the wheel and bumps his forehead a few times; the ginger exits the convenience store and sneaks into the passenger’s seat.

Two slushies in one hand and a pack of Malboro reds in the other, his sunglasses rest on the bridge of his nose, cheeks flushed with the afternoon sun.

He wants to at least arrive at Colorado, but with the setting sun on the horizon, they might as well stay for one night in Kansas, Bill’s singing softly to Led Zeppelin, the air from the rolled-down window making his hair flow in the wind.

He can’t stop but look at him; the golden hour makes his hair appear to be on fire, his sharp features almost soft and inviting, gone was the dangerous edge.

He notices how, when he smiles, it never quite reaches his eyes, they’re always sad, hiding something; the brunet scratches the back of his head and returns his attention on the road ahead.

“Wait, Izzy, did you see that?”

They just passed a welcome sign to Cawker City, and Bill tugs at Izzy’s flower-patterned black shirt, resting his sunglasses on the top of his head. He eyes him for a minute, green orbs pleading and pink lips pouting.

“We have to see the largest ball of twine.”

“I’m not stopping to see a ridiculous ball of twine, dude; it’s lame and probably a scam,” Izzy swats the redhead’s hand away.

Bill rolls his eyes and slumps further into his seat, brooding.

The brunet sighs, and he takes the exit in direction of the attraction. Besides him, Bill smiles cheekily.

It turns out; it’s just an enormous ball of yellowish twine under a roof so the shitty thing doesn’t get wet or damaged, but Izzy finds amusing how Bill looks at it with childish glee as if it is the most interesting thing in the world.

Probably because it’s the first time in his short life that the redhead leaves his home and the brunet’s heart breaks a little, he hasn’t seen the world in its entirety, but at least he went to vacation outside of Lafayette a couple of times with his family.

“I don’t understand why it didn’t occur to me before, could make a fortune with something similar,” announces Bill when they’re back in the car.

It’s getting dark, and they still don’t have a place to sleep. The redhead is clutching a black t-shirt that he insisted so much on buying as a souvenir, Izzy finds himself unable to tell him no; the garment is hideous, and the ginger swears that he’s only wearing it to sleep.

“Well, your little adventure made us late; we’re sleeping in the car,” Izzy says and grabs a cigarette.

He waits for Bill to retort or say something snarky, but the smaller boy shrugged and leaned against the cold window. He covers himself with the grey hoodie and closes his eyes.

They stop in a little diner where they buy some burgers before Izzy parks in an empty spot to eat their food on the hood; Bill sits beside him with a strawberry milkshake, dipping his fries in the beverage when he thinks no one’s looking.

The flower child looks at the sky; he can see some constellations blinking weakly in the navy-blue sky above them.

“This is better than any motel; you know any stars?” the brunet could barely see the redhead’s face under the night sky, just the shadow of his hair flowing gently with the breeze.

Izzy would never get used to that deep voice belonging to someone who looks so delicate and boyish.

He thinks the redhead belongs in an oil painting on a museum oversees, Bill’s stealing some of Izzy’s fries when he thinks he’s not looking, the brunet doesn’t have the heart to tell him to stop; the redhead looks at the sky, there’s a ketchup stain on his cheek which the brunet cleans with his napkin.

“Just the basic ones everyone can find easily; there’s Orion over there,” the taller boy points to three bright stars that form a straight line. “Used to have a book, would call myself an enthusiast.”

Bill looks at the sky curiously, squinting now and then searching for the stars; the flower child chuckles and points to different sections.

Scooting closer to the redhead until their knees bump, and he can feel the ginger’s heat emanating from his slender body.

He’s like a little radiator, warm and inviting; his lips are so close he can almost taste the artificial sweetness from the milkshake. Izzy steals glances at the other boy, carefully so he won’t catch him.

“You have the Little Dipper right between your eyes” the brunet traces the dust of freckles on the bridge of his nose.

They’re so close; if Izzy leans just right, he can steal a kiss from him but, Bill turns away to conceal the prominent blush on his cheeks and moves away from the taller boy; Izzy fidgets with his heavy necklace, caressing the black beads with his thumb and forefinger.

They finish their meal, and Izzy takes some blankets from the trunk, tossing one towards Bill. The seat is uncomfortable, but the brunet already did enough for him; the redhead won't complain.

“Where are you from?” Izzy pretends to be asleep; he peels one eye open to find Bill looking expectantly at him

“Indiana, Lafayette to be more specific” Bill almost chokes on his saliva when he heard it. His eyes widen.

“Holy Shit, that’s why I thought you look familiar; I’m also from that shitty town,” the redhead wipes his mouth.

“Had to get out of that boring town; I was so close to study law, but that shit’s not for me, I’m a musician,” Izzy wishes he had a cigarette, but he bites his nails and stares into the sky.

“Same, man I have my eyes set on Los Angeles; I think I’m a talented singer,” the redhead wraps himself with the blanket.

“It’s the promised land, the only chance there is to succeed if one day you need a drummer search for me,” Izzy smiles and winks at him awkwardly; beside him, Axl nods.

“I had to get out there, man, they kicked me out of my house, always treated me like shit, the assholes I suck are nothing compared to what my sorry excuse of a stepfather would do,” Bill says tiredly.

He turns to face the other side; he feels vulnerable, like a scrape after he scratched off the scab.

Izzy doesn’t know what else to say; maybe he crosses a boundary and he didn’t want the redhead to be mad at him.

**. . .**

They leave Cawker City with the first rays of the sun; Bill brushes his teeth with a water bottle after a sparse breakfast of cookies and shitty, lukewarm coffee.

The radio is loud; bass-thumping against the car and, Bill sings even louder; Izzy drums his fingers on the wheel. He has to admit the boy has a good pair of lungs, even when he screams like a banshee.

The highway extends in front of them; the scenery is pleasant with grass that stretches for miles.

All the brunet wants is to get out and lie down, enjoying the breeze, watching the clouds drift, feel the warm sun on his skin; Before they knew it, they arrive in Colorado, the sun relentlessly shining high in the summer sky.

On the side of the road, a white van is parked, with the lights on, someone is waving his arms to flag them down, but Izzy doesn’t stop, two more people have the hood open and are leaning on the engine, Bill who had dozed off awakes, gawks at the person and turns to look at the brunet.

“Should we stop?” Bill rolls the window down. There’s concern written all over his features, but also a naivety that could get them in trouble. Seafoam green eyes bore into him; he’s looking at the brunet with a pained expression.

“Nope, don’t even think about it, they could be killers, Bill” Izzy turns back to the road; if he keeps looking at his companion, he would accept to stop; the brunet has a sense that the redhead already learned how to make him say yes.

“Don’t be a dick and stop” the redhead makes a hand gesture, his hair falls limp on his face, voice is harsh anger lacing the words; Izzy huffs and parks the car, stopping the engine abruptly “thank you,”

Bill’s tone is arrogant, the flower child rolls his eyes, and he almost sees his brain, the figure from before jogs and stops beside Bill’s window.

It’s a boy maybe a year younger than them, his blonde hair is fluffy and, those blue eyes seemed unnatural under the rays of the sun, he’s sweating, a bead rolling down his forehead, the buttons on his shirt are halfway done, and Izzy can see a very hairy chest.

“Hey, dunno, if you guys can help us, our car broke down and we know nothing about cars” the blonde gestures towards the van with a sunny smile plastered on his boyish features; the two other people perked up and are eyeing them carefully.

“Don’t worry, dude, maybe my friend over here can help you” the redhead’s hand sneaks up to the flower child’s thigh; as soon as the words fell from Bill’s lips, the cigarette dangling from Izzy’s lips falls on the floor “Where are you guys headed?”

“L. A, we took a detour; if you can take us to a gas station, that would be great. I’m Steven, these are my friends Duff and Slash,”

Steven points to a taller punk-looking guy with short blueish hair no older than 19, a Sex Pistols shirt, eyeliner; and a curly-haired 18-year-old guy wearing a flannel shirt tied in a knot, his copper skin glistening with sweat.

Those dark curls obscure his face, and all Bill can see is plump lips and a nose; the redhead opens the door and steps out into the heat; it’s like a wave hitting him in the face and knocking out his breath.

“Bill, what are you doing? They could be killers” the flower child looks scandalized, his voice is a high pitch, California awaits for them, and he doesn’t want to waste more time. The blonde knits his brows together and crosses his arms.

“We ain’t no killers, at least me and Duff aren’t Slash, I’m not so sure now that I think about it” Steven puts a hand under his chin, and for a moment he looks grave, the brunet’s concerned that if he keeps thinking, smoke will come out of his ears.

That didn’t make Izzy feel safe at all; someone’s name is ‘Slash’ that’s a serial killer’s name if he’s ever heard one.

The ginger smiles coyly and keeps walking, Steven’s yapping excitedly beside him.

Izzy has no other choice but to follow them.

One thing he learned so far from the little devil is that when he makes his mind, there’s no power in the universe to stop him.

Izzy sulks behind them as he watches the redhead greet the two other boys; he doesn’t even attempt to look at the car, leaves it all to Izzy like he knows everything.

The punk, Duff, explains to him what happened in a calm voice; it’s enough to dissipate any lingering anger.

The brunet rolls the sleeves of his shirt and leans down on the engine, inspecting it intently, sniffing for smoke, or looking for any other problem; Bill talks with the boys and the bastard’s smiling, making Izzy’s blood boil.

“Well, there’s gas and, nothing appears damaged, maybe battery’s dead, I don’t have any cables in my car” Izzy wipes his greasy hands on a rag, courtesy of Duff, the only one interested in what’s going on, there’s sweat on his forehead and a streak of grease on his cheek.

“if we hadn’t stolen the car, maybe we could know what’s wrong with it,” Steven says, immediately; Duff’s hands are covering his mouth, the taller man smiles awkwardly, and Steven licks his hand, the punk lets him go disgusted, wiping his hand on Slash’s flannel shirt.

“You guys steal the van?” Izzy questions, exasperated, throwing the rag on the floor. If he has to drag Bill kicking and screaming towards the car and leave with no one getting killed, he’s going to do it. Anything to ensure their safety.

“We didn’t steal it, Stevie; we borrowed it,” chimed the curly-haired guy, crossing his arms and nudging his friend in the ribs.

The three boys bicker, and Izzy can already sense a headache coming, looming menacingly on the horizon; Bill watches everything with a cheeky smile and laughs, shaking his head. He clears his throat, and everyone looks at him.

“Hey! no need to fight, I’m sure we can find a solution; if you’re also heading to L. A, it would be a great idea if we just take all of you with us; Izzy wouldn’t mind, right, sweetheart?” Bill stands next to the brunet winks.

Izzy can’t decide if that’s hot or be mad, wounding his arm around his shoulders; the Chevelle can’t take more people. He has enough with Bill.

“Wait, wait, no, we’re taking them to the damn gas station, before someone tracks the car and we end up in jail with them, Bill,” Izzy growls and taps his foot on the hot pavement if he had an egg, he’s sure it would cook under the unforgiving sun.

“C’mon Izzy, we can’t leave them here,” Bill pouts, pleading, and once again, Izzy questions his sanity and self-control.

“Do you want to take the Three Stooges with us?” Izzy puts his hands on his hips to look like the one in charge, and for a moment, he thinks it might be effective.

Out of the corner of his eye, he can see the curly-haired guy flip him off; he can’t deal with it.

The heat’s not doing anything to help his mood; he wants to eat and take a long shower.

He knows it’s over when the three boys load their things into the trunk; he spots two guitar cases, and Steven’s excited as soon as he sees the drum kit, his eyes gleaming and running his mouth nonstop, asking Izzy all kinds of questions. The three boys make themselves at home immediately, Duff in the middle and the other guys at either side of him.

Half an hour later, Izzy broke a couple of fights over what music they should listen to; the brunet finally settles for Prince.

Duff smiles and hums along; Slash and Steven are leaning against the blond, sleeping. The redhead’s eyes are droopy, but the punk is wide awake, looking outside to the dancing power poles.

“Thank you, Izzy, right?” says Duff, quiet enough not to wake the sleeping brats. Izzy glances at him from the rearview mirror.

“Don’t worry, thank Bill though, he was the one with the idea” beside him, the redhead’s already sleeping, his breath even and chest rising and falling slowly.

Eyes moving behind its translucent eyelids with either a dream or a nightmare last night, he was whimpering in his sleep, and that scared him shitless.

The group spends the night in a dingy motel since they can’t sleep in the streets, and the Chevelle’s not that big to accommodate a giant, a poodle, and an overly excited puppy in the backseat.

The three boys are kind enough to cooperate with the money for the two rooms, it’s just for one night, next day they’re leaving bright and early, and he doesn’t want to hear any excuse if someone stays behind the won’t come back.

“Ok, Duff, you’re with sunshine and Uncle Itt, me and Bill will share a room,” announces the brunet, handing the key to the taller boy; he seems responsible enough. God knows he won’t trust tweedle dee and tweedle dum.

He shares the room with the redhead, who shrugs and hangs the backpack on his skinny shoulders. The flower child expects a fight for the single bed between the other boys, but it didn’t happen.

Instead, he notices how Slash and Duff lace their fingers together with a practiced motion like they’ve done it before. He also saw them share a kiss when they were on the road, but Izzy says nothing.

Bill hogs the bathroom as soon as the brunet opens the door to their room, and the flower child is already falling asleep; his legs and arms hurt like hell. He’s been driving close to seven hours.

The redhead collapses on the bed, only wearing the ugly black shirt, the image of the giant ball of twine printed in the front; he cut the sleeves and half of it to be more fitting; he looks at the brunet from behind his red bangs, hugging the pillow under his head.

“You sleeping?” Axl’s voice is low from the bed across from him. The brunet didn’t think it could go any lower.

He hums but opens his eyes; the redhead inspects him, those stormy eyes are one of the most mesmerizing colors he’s seen, they’re brown, but when the light hits just right, they appear to be grey or even blue, always so sparkly.

“Just wanted to thank you for taking me and the boys. I don’t know them, but you helped them either way.”

A slight smile crept up to the corner of Izzy’s lips. He takes a cigarette from the pack and lights it. The redhead finds the little wrinkles around his mouth and the way he scrunches his nose when he smiles so cute it gives him the fuzzies.

Bill gets up and sits on the flower child’s bed, scooting closer to him until Izzy can make out the soft features of his face, that long nose so perfect, the high sharp cheekbones, light wisps of his eyelashes and fluffy hair.

He’s the most beautiful boy he’s ever seen; it should be wrong to look at him that way; Bill takes the cigarette out of the flower child’s hand and takes a drag until the smoke burns his lungs.

The brunet’s breath hitches as he watches Bill’s lips wrap around the stick, the cherry lighting to a red color, almost like his hair.

Izzy can smell the remains of the nicotine on his breath. He closes the gap between them, a firm hand gripping him by the black t-shirt, uncovering a slim shoulder, their mouths crashing, hearts beating with nervousness.

It’s the first time they kiss, and it’s the most exhilarating thing Izzy’s ever felt. Bill’s lips are wet and warm. The brunet’s tongue traced over the ginger’s bottom lip, noses bumping.

The ginger kisses like a fire consuming everything with every step it takes, all teeth clacking and tongue thrusting, Izzy’s hands rest on his hair, he wants to pull away, but he can’t, no, he doesn’t want to, instead; he leans closer into the heat of the redhead’s body.

Bill’s eyes are wide open; they look at him with sadness, and something sweet, something almost like love, his cheeks are tinted pink, suddenly Izzy feels wide awake, the redhead is the first to pull away, wiping his mouth from any remnants of the flower child’s spit.

The redhead reaches the lamp on the bedside table and turns it off; the entire room basks in darkness. He returns to his bed and leaves Izzy with his conflicting thoughts.

His head is spinning; it all feels like a fever dream. He should be revolted, even disgusted; he liked it, and; it left him wanting more.

The brunet opens the window to finish his cigarette, the slight summer breeze ruffling his hair. He just met the boy, but the flower child already feels something for him. He can’t quite understand what it is.


	3. You're still a good guy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Tomorrow’s my birthday,” announces Slash out of the blue; Izzy brushes it off and sips his coffee, lost in his thoughts of a pair of sea-foam green eyes that could rival the beaches that await him.
> 
> He hums and tilts his head to look at the younger boy and urge him to continue.
> 
> “I, well, we thought that maybe we could stop in Las Vegas and have a good time.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! only one more chapter and this is done, hope you enjoy it, I think this is my favorite chapter so far, the title comes from the song Good guy by Julia Jacklin who must be tired of carrying my mental health in her back, the motel was inspired by Fun City motel, I have a fascination with Las Vegas after playing too much Fallout; thanks for reading Song for reference: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IjbKgvc6zp8 
> 
> (Sorry I'm a sucker for disco music and making the boys happy)

The boys are having breakfast in the little restaurant beside the motel; he doesn’t wake Bill and lets him sleep a little longer.

Izzy couldn’t catch some shut-eye in the entire night; all he could think about were the redhead’s lips on his own, how warm his mouth felt. Reminiscing about it left Izzy’s heart racing inside his ribs.

In front of him, Steven and Duff talk about music, it surprises him how much energy the little blond has, Slash’s face obscured by the unruly curls, and Izzy suspects that he’s asleep until the boy takes a swig of his orange juice.

“Tomorrow’s my birthday,” announces Slash out of the blue; Izzy brushes it off and sips his coffee, lost in his thoughts of a pair of sea-foam green eyes that could rival the beaches.

He hums and tilts his head to look at the younger boy and urge him to continue.

“I, well, we thought that maybe we could stop in Las Vegas and have a good time.”

Izzy’s brain short circuits and, his jaw drops; he glares at the three boys and shakes his head; it’s ridiculous, he’s not stopping in Las Vegas, if he has to leave them and drive alone the rest of the trip, he without a doubt will do it.

Everyone’s on thin ice, and if Bill wants to stay with the three stooges, he won’t argue with him. He opens his mouth to retort at Slash when the redhead arrives.

Bill’s wearing a ridiculous crop top and some tight jeans; he can hear Slash wolf-whistle beside him when he sits beside the brunet; Duff rolls his eyes and smacks the younger boy in the arm.

Izzy coughs and chokes on his coffee. That sliver of skin is taunting him; the little red happy trail is distracting, can’t keep his sight off of him, doesn’t remember the firm speech he practicing in his head.

“What were you guys talking about?” asks the ginger and steals Izzy’s cup, making a face, it’s too bitter for him, the flower child can’t stop ogling at the redhead, Bill shamelessly winks at him and puts his hand on his thigh making Izzy freeze in his place.

“We were convincing dad to take us to Las Vegas for my birthday, but he wouldn’t let us, mom.” Slash whines with his best imitation of a bratty teenager, making the corkscrew curls aside, puppy eyes on display. Izzy hides his face in his hands, whimpering.

“You’re not even old enough to gamble, dipshit, none of us is; How Old Are You?” groans Izzy and rests his head on the back of the chair, squeaking under his weight.

“I think it’s a good idea. I’m down for it” Bill looks at Izzy and gives one of his trademark smirks, making the brunet’s heart beat faster; he huffs and gets up to pack his shit and get on the road, he breathes to calm himself and thinks of the life that waits for him in California and the chance of finally being free.

The road stretches out in front of them, mountains on the horizon covered in green grass on both sides, the sky is clean, and there are few clouds; his clothes cling to his slender body with sweat.

In the back, Duff produces an acoustic guitar and is strumming the cords lazily, Bill’s singing softly, and soon, Izzy forgets how mad he was.

They’re halfway to Vegas. His legs aches and Slash offers to drive but he’ll be damned if he lets him touch his baby; he allows Duff to drive, giving the keys hesitantly.

Bill slides in the backseat close to Izzy, the wind blowing in his face, his shirt open, and necklaces dangle heavily on his chest.

Duff stops at a gas station, Bill and Slash get out to use the restroom, the punk grabs a can of piss warm beer from the passenger seat, it opens with a hiss; he gives it a big gulp; offering Izzy a sip, and the brunet accepts it.

They’re leaning against the car, the bitter liquid pooling warmly in his belly; Duff snorts and shakes his head, watching as Slash and Bill get out of the restroom and stretch their legs.

“You’re oblivious as fuck, but he likes you.”

“What?” responds the flower child. His gaze focuses on the redhead; he has his hair in a low ponytail, he’s speaking with Slash, smiling content, but those eyes remain so sorrowful and dark.

“Bill, he likes you, always looking at you when he thinks you’re not watching, always leaning towards you man, he’s in love with you.”

Duff smacks Izzy’s thigh and makes a hand gesture, turns his head to look at Izzy. Brown, stormy eyes show the conflict inside his mind, and the punk can’t help but pity him, patting his shoulder.

“What about you and the poodle?.”

“Slash?” Duff laughs, but Izzy can see the beginning of a blush on his pale cheeks, “I met him near my hometown, we stole a van and, now we’re together or something like that.”

Izzy shakes his head and runs a hand through his sweaty hair, crosses his arms, and sighs; he’s been thinking about it, the kisses have been haunting him.

He repeats the last two days in his mind. He shouldn’t be scared like a little boy, but he is because, at the end of his trip, they’re going on separate ways, never to see each other again. Stevie is out cold in the back, snoring loudly and drooling. Not an enjoyable view. He lights a cigarette and looks up to the cloudless sky, the radio singing softly in the distance.

**. . .**

Las Vegas is more or less like in the movies he watched growing up, Bugsy Siegel’s wet dream.

Enormous neon lights announcing bars, clubs, and fancy hotels they will never afford, Izzy’s already counting the money he has left in his pocket.

There’s a shit ton of billboards announcing things like “Elvis slept here or Frank Sinatra took a shit in this hotel” the brunet thinks it’s tacky; he recently learned that Bill loves Elvis a little too much.

It was one of his idols growing up; he doesn’t judge, has his fixation with Keith Richards.

The sun is setting on the horizon, the city lights look better under the night sky, and all Izzy wants is to grab a drink and sleep, but it will be near impossible with the group. Bill looks at the lights, all bug-eyed and dreamy; the redhead stretches, and the crop top slides up, uncovering the rest of his tummy, making Izzy turn the other way.

Duff licks his lips and goes to Slash’s side, leaving them alone; the ginger smiles and leans against the car.

He clears his throat, and the flower child lights a cigarette, giving it a long drag, thinking in everything but the fact that Bill’s right there beside him, so close he can smell the shampoo from the motel in Chicago he took with him.

“So, we’re almost close to the end,” Bill mumbles, the aviators on the bridge of his nose hide his sad eyes, and it unnerves Izzy; he nods and closes his eyes, “I’m sorry for last night, for bothering you.”

Bill scratches his arm, leaving an angry red mark on his pale skin, shifting his weight from foot to foot, the brunet blinks.

“Why should you be sorry? I’m not saying I didn’t enjoy it, so you shouldn’t be sorry” Izzy shrugs and tilts his head, giving the redhead what he believes is his best flirty look, biting his bottom lip and watching him squirm under his gaze if he looks ridiculous he doesn’t care.

Bill widens his eyes and looks at the brunet like he grew a second head on his shoulder. He finally gives Izzy a roguish look.

Izzy leans again, scooting closer to the ginger, and gives him a chaste kiss on his cheek before walking alongside the other boys; Bill smiles, feeling like a damn schoolgirl. Butterflies fluting its wings in the pit of his stomach.

Izzy feels like a duck herding its ducklings; he’s convinced they’re not going anywhere; no one will let them in any bar or sell alcohol to a bunch of dudes no older than 21.

But he shouldn’t underestimate the power of conviction from four guys wanting to get drunk; Slash flirts with a girl outside the cheapest bar they could find. It was a coincidence she works there and kind enough to let them inside with no questions and serve them drinks as long as they pay for them.

That’s why Izzy finds himself in a booth sandwiched between Bill and Steven, drinking beer and watching people dance around the neon lights. The music is loud, and he can’t recognize the song that is playing; it’s some pop song that’s popular on the radio.

He glances at Duff and Slash sitting in front of them; they’re talking in hush voices and giggling like schoolgirls, their hands intertwine and, Izzy’s a little jealous of how open they are, besides him, Steven does a face and scrunches his nose, he leans against the brunet and whispers in his ear.

“I find it disgusting not because they’re both boys but because Slash it’s like my brother, and it’s not pleasant to find them having sex; yesterday they woke me up with their moans. Can you believe it, man?” Steven shakes his head and gives the beer a big gulp.

Izzy looks at Bill; he’s been silent since they arrive, just humming to himself and drinking his beer.

Drinks keep flowing, and Izzy feels like he’s walking among clouds. Music thumps loudly; he can feel it reverberating in his body.

Bill’s warm hand finds his way towards his thigh, squeezing it lightly, and; the brunet smiles at him coyly, a chill runs down his spine, he’s buzzed on beer, and the whiskey Slash keeps ordering, the brunet senses that he will pay for it.

“Let’s get out of here,” says the ginger; Izzy realizes how much he likes Bill’s voice, so low, deep, and rich. The brunet nods and stands up.

He stumbles but the redhead’s hands are around his hips keeping him steady; they walk towards the exit and, Steven frowns; he has to deal alone with the sweethearts in front of him.

The summer breeze is satisfying after being inside smelling the cigarette smoke and sweat; Izzy grabs a joint from his denim jacket and lights it, Bill rests his head between the crook of his neck.

He reaches for the joint between Izzy’s slim fingers, but the flower child grabs him by the base of his skull and pulls him closer, blowing the smoke on Bill’s open mouth, his eyes are half-lidded, and the flower child swears the green glows in the dark.

“I love your nose” Bill reaches for his face; his fingers are icy and traces the shape repeatedly; he’s grinning, pupils were blown out, lips parted and wet, little teeth poking out.

The brunet has the shadow of a mustache and beard; it looks funny but cute. He also loves his hair and how it curls at the ends, but he doesn’t tell him.

Bill shouldn’t be thinking about the boy he just met in that way; the shadow of his stepfather was rearing its ugly head in the corner of those thoughts, and he could still feel the cold metal from the belt bruising his tender skin; it was a phantom pain from the beats he used to be a target.

“You’re just saying that cus’ your drunk and baked,” Izzy turns away. The redhead looks disappointed, a hint of hurt in his angelical face as if the brunet just rejected him.

“Ask me tomorrow, and you’ll be surprised that I’m gonna think the same,” the flower child shakes his head and smiles sadly, the joint between his thin lips, a warm feeling spreading through his chest, like butter melting over a piece of toast.

“Why are you saying this?” Izzy’s voice is accusatory, intimidating, but the pretty boy in front of him is unfazed; he just shrugs and wraps his arms around the brunet’s neck.

“The trip it’s almost over, and after this, we will not see each other again,” Izzy opens his mouth, he’s interrupted by Slash bursting through the door, wheezing; Duff and Steven in tow, looking disheveled.

“Let’s get the fuck out of here before someone calls the cops,” Bill laughs and grabs Izzy’s hands; they run through the illuminated streets of the strip. He feels the adrenaline pumping in his veins, wind in his face, and ruffling his hair. He never felt so alive in his twenty years of existence.

Once they’re far from the bar, the group stops to catch their breath; Slash laughs and ruffles his sweaty curls.

He lights a cigarette, smoking billowing from his hand like tendrils, Duffs sighs exasperated, and Steven holds his tummy laughing hysterically.

Not wanting to go to sleep yet and walking aimlessly with no money or plan, they don’t have enough money to do anything else; Izzy doesn’t realize he’s still holding Bill’s hand until later. He coughs and turns away.

They still hadn’t found a decent motel so they can spend the night, Izzy won’t handle another night in the backseat, but he also has a hunch that every motel here is expensive as fuck than the ones they’ve been staying at.

They go to a humbler part of the city. The three boys walk clumsily in front of them, laughing and making jokes only they can understand.

Duff has his long arms around the other two boys’ necks.

“Is that a fucking roller skate rink?,” announces Steven, slurring in complete awe, letting out an ear-piercing screech, his blue eyes sparkling, pointing at an illuminated building “Man, we have to go; I’ve always wanted to go.”

Everyone turns to look at Izzy in search of approbation. Instead, the brunet shakes his head vehemently and tries to give a stern look even though the weed and alcohol in his system are not helping; he feels Bill’s heavy eyes are on him.

“C’mon, Izz; it’s the last night till we arrive at L. A and officially Slash’s birthday,” Bill crosses his arms and juts his prominent hip, tapping his fingers over his arm, even though he looks defiantly at him.

Izzy thinks it’s the hottest thing he’s ever seen; he immediately admits defeat and follows the boys inside.

The place it’s illuminated by ultraviolet and strobing colorful lights, the pattern on the rug appears to be glowing and dancing in front of his eyes.

The enormous disco ball it’s spinning slowly on the ceiling, casting little rays into the hardwood floor.

Music is louder than at the bar, and it has to be disco. That didn’t bother Slash and the others in the slightest to rent a pair of skates.

Bill makes a beeline towards the sitting area, where people are eating, Izzy’s stomach growls, and he goes to buy himself something, let the three stooges to buy their food if they’re hungry.

He returns to the table, Bill’s looking pensive and even tired; as soon as the fries are on the table, he steals some, Izzy doesn’t care.

The other boys get lost in the crowd of people skating, but he can hear their loud laughs as they stumble and fall on the floor; it wasn’t a good idea to drink and skate. Izzy looks at the boy under his brown bangs.

“Why are you not skating?” asks Izzy around a mouthful of fries he downs with a swig of the milkshake; his brows are knit together, Bill blinks and its shamefaced, hands writhing in his lap, “You’re the one that insisted so much.”

“Don’t know how to” Bill’s voice is timid; Izzy can almost hear him over the music.

The brunet laughs and wipes his hands on a suspicious napkin already on the table; he ignores Bill’s disgusted face. The flower child lends Bill a hand and pulls him on his feet, takes him reluctantly to rent a pair of skates, and forces him to change his shoes.

Yvonne Elliman is singing through the rink; Bill rolls his eyes unamused at the cheesy song. He should have watched Roller Boogie with his sister more often.

Because he looks like a baby deer taking its first steps, he’s jealous of how easily the brunet slides on the carpeted floor; he makes it look so effortless.

“You know how to do this?” Bill groans. If he wasn’t holding Izzy’s hand, he would hide his face from the embarrassment; somehow the flower child makes him feel safe; if he falls, he would catch him.

“Yeah, something like that, used to skateboard with my brother back at home, it’s not that different,” Izzy says with an airiness dripping from every letter and gripping Bill’s hand tightly so the boy won’t trip and fall on his face.

He guides him to the rink and pulls the boy with him carefully; it’s just like summers like this back at home, skating, smoking, and discussing music to forget the monotony of midwestern life.

The redhead doesn’t feel that bad when he spots Duff, Slash, and Steven on the ground laughing; Izzy gives a slight smile. Bill is bathed in the neon lights, so intoxicating and surreal, the pair is skating slowly, and the flower child sings along to the song; it reminds him of afternoons at home, his mom preparing dinner as she sings.

_“If I can’t have you_

_I don’t want nobody baby_

_If I can’t have you, uh-huh, oh_

_If I can’t have you_

_I don’t want nobody baby_

_If I can’t have you, uh-ho, oh”_

Izzy points at Bill every time he sings the chorus, and it’s endearing to watch the boy’s cheeks flush with embarrassment and hide his smile. The brunet’s satisfied.

It’s the first time since he met the redhead he sees him so happy; those green eyes are sparkling and not so sad; it’s all because of him. He feels so content since Izzy left his home, and he’s sure that Bill feels the same.

“You like this kind of music,” the redhead states amused, teasing the brunet, Izzy’s singing very off-key, “I also saw your Joni Mitchell tapes in the glove box.”

Izzy loses his balance and they end on the floor in a mess of tangled limbs, the brunet on top of the redhead; Bill laughs breathily and caresses the flower child’s face, feeling its softness under his fingers, he brings him closer, almost kissing him.

The brunet pulls away just as the music slows the tempo and another familiar song blasts from the speakers. He helps the redhead to stand up; they return the skates; it takes a little coaxing from Steven, but they finally return to the streets.

Night’s chilly, the flower child takes off his denim jacket, wraps it around Bill’s shoulders; It smells like stale cigarette smoke, spilled beer, and Izzy. It makes the redhead feel warm inside.

Back in the car, the search for a decent motel stops when a bright pink building catches their eyes, it’s a seedy motel with a wedding chapel attached.

Izzy snickers and glances at the redhead; he flips him off but smiles; every time Izzy sees that smile; he can see a mischievous glint of the little boy still inside him.

“Let’s get married, Duffy, I want Elvis to officiate our wedding, Imagine when we tell our children” Slash sing-songs and tugs at the towering punk, who’s grinning and kisses the smaller boy full on the lips.

Steven gags and darts his tongue out. That sounded like a bad idea and a drunken mistake, but it would amuse him to see their faces later in the morning when they spot the matching gold bands. Izzy already feels sorry for the fictional children.

The man at the reception eyes them angrily. All they could afford is two rooms with a single bed and a double; Steven doesn’t want to repeat the same experience from the previous night.

After reassuring the little blond that they were going to be quiet for the rest of the night, Duff winks at the brunet and gives him a thumbs-up; Slash makes an obscene gesture before the taller boy smacks him in the head, wild curls cushioning the hit.

There’s a pool in the back, and Bill spots it on their way to the room; the ginger still feels wide awake, and when Duff and the boys are in their room, he tugs at Izzy’s sleeve and guides him to the pool, it’s lighted, and the water seems nice enough to dive.

The redhead looks at him roguishly, soon Izzy’s jacket, the rest of his clothes end in a pile on the ground until he’s just wearing nothing but the soft black material of his briefs.

Izzy swallows hard, fidgeting with his shirt’s buttons; Bill takes his underwear off and jumps into the pool, wiggling his eyebrows at the flower child, Izzy’s jaws unhinge when he sees his perky butt.

“Are you out of your fucking mind? They’re gonna kick us out!” growls Izzy between his teeth, massaging his temples and crouching on the ground to be at eye level with the ginger.

The redhead emerges from the water and runs his hand through wet and dark hair, rests his chin on the edge of the pool, looking naïve at the brunet.

His hair changes colors to a different array of reds and blonds; Bill swims away, a little defiance on his features, his sight never leaving the flower child.

“Are you coming or, you’re staying there staring creepily at me?” Bill teases and submerges in the icy water; the brunet huffs and starts unbuttoning his shirt, falling to the ground.

He pops open the button on his pants and toys with the zipper; Bill looks at him leeringly, arching his brow.

“Don’t be shy Izzy; it will not be the first time I see your dick.”

Izzy feels his cheeks redden, and he turns back to take the rest of his pants off. The redhead whistles when he sees that once again, he’s not wearing any underwear.

Bill pulls him into the cold water, It makes Izzy forget the tiredness; the brunet sighs and looks at the smaller boy, feeling giddy.

The moonlight's bathing the flower child’s body, casting shadows on his perfect face, making him look ethereal and otherworldly.

The fiery ginger swims closer to him and laces their hands together, before dunking him under the water; the brunet swallows and remembers they’re both naked as the day they were born.

Underneath, the redhead holds his face close and pulls him into a kiss, bubbles coming from their mouths, lungs burning, and they emerge to the surface. The flower child breathes heavily; his eyes are wide; he makes his limp hair aside, swaying softly.

“Who’s there!?” screams a deep voice, and the boys get out of the pool.

Bill’s got a leg around his boxers, and he almost falls on the ground, Izzy hastily pulls at his jeans, wetting them, and they run towards their room, collecting the rest of their clothes, dripping water and leaving a trail of footprints.

In the safety of their room, Izzy slams the door and catches his breath, his head hanging low and chuckling, skin cold, and water droplets roll down his body.

Bill’s in the bed, laughing hysterically, and the brunet has heard nothing that beautiful. It’s a genuine laugh he has the pleasure to hear, and Izzy realizes with sadness that he will not listen to it again.

The redhead sighs and pats the bed so Izzy can lie down next to him. The brunet’s starting to feel cold, and he tugs at the comforter, wrapping it around his lithe body.

The brunet leaves his clothes in the corner of the room, lays next to the redhead. He scoots closer to the boy, and the redhead traces his nose once again. His slim fingers are icy against his skin.

“I still think you're so beautiful; all of you” Bill looks at him adoringly.

Like Izzy is the most precious thing in the world. He has the power to make Izzy feel loved, needed; he doesn’t want to part ways with the boy. The last few days were so surreal the redhead feels as he may awake in his room with his fucking stepdad and derange mother, only to realize all of this was a dream.

Izzy kisses him hungrily; it feels like drinking a glass of water after being in the desert for too long; the flower child’s tongue wrestles with Bill’s in an act of dominance.

All teeth bruising over the tender skin of his lips, almost tearing it and drawing blood; it’s better than kissing any girl, and he relishes at how right it feels, the intoxicating sensation of Bill’s lips against his own.

“Tell me you love me, just for tonight,” the redhead caresses his face, milky long slender legs tangle around Izzy’s slim hips “even though you don’t mean it, you’re still going to be a good guy in the morning”

The ginger pulls at his wet hair, his dick stirs against his leg, and the smaller boy moans behind their kiss; Izzy’s loving the little noises that escape from that pretty mouth, and he wants to be the one to cause those noises. Bill’s eyes are half-lidded, lips swollen and red, so kissable.

“I’m sorry, Bill, I can’t do it” Izzy hides his face between his sweaty hands, a cold sweat enveloping him; he’s breathing heavily.

Bill’s beautiful, he’s starting to feel something more for him than a mere friendship that sparked along the road. The ginger looks at him with soft eyes, peeling his hands away; he dries the tears, kissing him one last time, gently caressing his face.

The redhead pulls him into the bathroom and turns the shower on; Warm water fogs the room, and Bill grabs some shampoo from the little caddy on the wall, massaging his scalp gently.

The brunet will fall asleep if the ginger continues; he scrubs his body until the smell of chlorine is gone when they’re done. Bill puts on the ridiculous black shirt and collapses on the bed.

Izzy falls asleep with the sound of the smaller boy singing softly to Yvonne Elliman, holding him close, petting his hair. Sleep comes easy, but Bill doesn’t want the day to end just yet.


	4. What if you're just someone I  just want around?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They know it's over when he spots the welcome sign to California when he can almost taste the sea salt from the beaches and the summer breeze in his face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know why I struggle so badly with the end, have been writing this since August, rewriting everything, and being not quite satisfied. Third time's the charm, or so they say, although this must be like fourth time or something like that. Hope you like this, I had fun writing this, it's not summer anymore but oh well, see you around, thanks for reading.

Bill awakes with the rays of the sun making their way through the flimsy white curtains, the distant sound of the shower, the cars passing by, bed still warm, still smells like the brunet.

Izzy gets out of the bathroom, his hair dripping, and lays down next to the ginger, arms heavy around his waist; he caresses the redhead’s face gently; his freckles are more visible from the last days spent in the sun.

The brunet smiles gloomily at him; the reality of the situation falls like a bucket of ice-cold water on his back. It’s the last day of the trip and Bill wants to always remember this moment for the rest of his life.

To keep Izzy’s face permanently in his mind, he wishes to have a camera and capture this moment in eternity so he would never forget him.

The flower child doesn’t want to but has no other option but to get up and pack his things, knocking on the boy’s room to wake them up, this time, he wants to arrive at L. An on-time, the redhead mentions nothing about what happened the night before; but interlocks their fingers together and smiles sullenly.

They load the trunk, breakfast it’s not much better, everyone prods at their dishes in complete silence, the boys are nursing a hangover which they try to cure with more beer.

Hair of the Dog that bit them.

There are purple bags under their eyes; Bill barely touches his scrambled eggs, his sad eyes looking at the ground.

On the road, no one fights and makes snarky remarks, not a sound or a peep; Steven is not yapping excitedly. The music is playing softly from the radio.

Duff and the boys are dead to the world, snoring audibly, but Bill doesn’t want to sleep; his eyes are droopy and dozing off, fighting to keep himself awake, he prefers to stretch every minute he has left with the flower child.

Izzy drives slow as if to buy more time; to avoid the inevitable. He glances at Bill, hands writhing in his lap and leaning against the close window; it’s the fastest four hours of his life.

They know it’s over when he spots the welcome sign to California when he can almost taste the sea salt from the beaches and the summer breeze in his face.

When they finally arrive at the City of Angels and lost souls, the rain falls steadily above its big droplets wetting the asphalt and the car.

Bill rolls the window down, lets the gentle air ruffle his reddish hair, and little droplets wetting the interior of the car; he outstretches his hand and watches as the raindrops fall on his skin.

The flower child leaves the three stooges on the Sunset Strip; they have a run-down apartment waiting for them. Bill gets out and hugs them, saying their goodbyes and promising to see them again.

Duff leans against his open window and smiles forcefully at the brunet before stretching his hand. His grip is firm, but not enough to hurt him, to get his point come across.

“Don’t fuck it up,” utters Duff letting go of his hand before patting his shoulder, Izzy’s lips curve into a strained smile, nodding before returning to his car, he sees him disappear in the crowd of people, carrying his backpack and guitar case.

“It’s over,” says Bill, that impassive face looking at the streets in front of him; there’s a lump in his throat, and he takes a sharp intake of breath.

Meanwhile, all Izzy wants is to kiss the smaller boy and hug him tightly, never let go of him, but this was the deal, they finally reach their destination; after this, they’re on their own, never to see each other again.

“Where should I leave you?” inquires the flower child once more, and Bill laughs affectionately, a sound that makes him feel warm and giddy inside; the brunet wants to always hear that laugh for the rest of his life, but he knows it’s not possible.

“A bus stop, think I have enough money to buy a ticket or whatever,” answers the smaller boy, voice breaking and eyes glistening with unshed tears, and he wipes furiously at them.

Izzy finds a spot to park a block away from the bus stop; they get out of the car. The brunet opens the trunk; only the ginger’s backpack and his drum kit remain.

Bill grabs his things and sighs; there’s a pained expression on his face, eyes full of all the things he wants to say, his lips are red from biting at them nervously, Izzy swallows and scratches his neck.

“You ready to leave? Have all of your things?” Izzy takes a deep, shaky breath. Bill nods beside him.

“This is it; I’ll never be able to thank you enough for what you did, Izzy; I was talking seriously, you’re such a good guy,” Bill puts a strand of red hair behind his ear, voice is soft, and even though he’s smiling, the brunet can see the sadness through the facade.

And you sure you’re gonna be safe, you’ll be ok?” Izzy fixes his sight on the ginger’s face, studies his face more intently, memorizing every freckle, mole, that penetrating green shade from his eyes, the red from his hair, the softness of his cheeks between his fingers.

He should be happy; he’s finally in L. A to fulfill his dream, maybe he would find a nice girl or a beautiful boy just like the one in front of him, to love again, but the sadness clouds every plan he has for the future.

Izzy doesn’t want to do it alone; there are so many things he wants to say; wants the redhead to know just how much meeting him has changed his life, to kiss him and take him far away to see the stars during the night, wants to love him madly without care on what the world has to say.

Instead, Izzy puts his hand on his shoulder and gives a tight squeeze.

“I’ll be fine, all thanks to you; you already did more than enough, Izzy. I’m glad I met you,” Bill runs his hands through his hair, the backpack heavy on his shoulders “see you around then, once again, thank you for everything.”

It’s nothing more but a lovely lie. To dream, they will see each other, L. A is too big, and they will get lost in the sea of people, just like him or Bill, fighting for their dreams to come into reality.

“You can count on that” Izzy makes finger guns, toys with the keys of the Chevelle, and offers the redhead a sincere smile.

Bill sits down on the plastic bench and waves Izzy goodbye. The brunet will remember that sullen face, his glassy green eyes.

Izzy walks back to the Chevelle, stuffs his hands in the pockets of his denim jacket, slides on the driver’s seat with ease, heart-thumping nervously, a knot forming in his stomach.

He still can go back and take Bill with him, see the ocean together, feel the sand underneath their toes, swim in nothing but their boxers, kiss under the water as if his life depends on it.

Izzy finally puts the key in the ignition; the engine roars to life; he drives away, careful to not look back.

The red light from the traffic lights makes him stop, Izzy’s chewing on his lips nervously, can’t stop thinking about the redhead all alone at the bus stop, with the sad eyes and broken heart, the backpack on his shoulders.

The words from Duff echo inside his head, the empty passenger’s seat is mocking him, Izzy sighs and makes a suspiciously illegal U-turn, and speeds back to the station.

Leaving the car a block away and running back, careful not to bump on anyone, in his mind he practices the big speech of all he wants to say to Bill, the promises Izzy wants to make; not sure if it’s love what he’s feeling but, all he cares is that he doesn’t want to leave the ginger

A smile reaches his mouth, the adrenaline pumping in his veins, expecting to see the beautiful boy hopeful’s face with his red backpack, but when he’s at the station, the bench is empty.

There’s no trace of the redhead being there at all.

The smile falls off his face, and he laughs bitterly, his hands on his head, tears threatening to spill from his Bambi’s eyes, his heart shattering into tiny shards.

Izzy returns to the car, his head hanging low between his shoulders and dragging his feet; he curses and hits the steering wheel, hurting his hands.

Bill’s gone, and he couldn’t do anything to stop him…

**. . .**

There’s no one’s waiting for him on the bed in the last motel he’s staying at, just the soft pitter-patter of the rain over the roof, no one’s talking softly in the dead of night from across his bed; he feels so alone in the four walls of his room.

He’s sitting on the edge of the bed, unzips the backpack, and takes his pajamas out when a black fabric falls on the ground; it’s the t-shirt he bought for Bill from the largest ball of twine.

Somehow it got mixed up with his things; he brings it closer to his nose; it still smells like him. Izzy hugs it tightly against his chest, inhaling that musky aroma, cheap cologne, and the sweet fragrance of the shampoo from Vegas.

His eyes fill with tears, a lump forming in his throat. He blinks fast to stop the tears from spilling and lays down on the bed with the shirt safely tuck between his arms, falling asleep. He dreams of red hair and green eyes and swimming in the ocean with him.

Izzy submerges himself in the music scene to keep his thoughts away from the redhead, finds a decent apartment, adopts a dog, and has to sell drugs to keep a roof under his head and food on his plate, even though he’s not that hungry anymore.

They steal the damn Chevelle with his drum kit inside, the only thing he holds dear, the memories made in that car are irreplaceable; he buys a guitar and tries different bands, has to wear a dress and some guys beat him up for it.

He dyes his hair black and gets a tattoo. He pierces his nose with a safety pin under the fluorescent lights from the bathroom, casting shadows over his face inside a dubiously clean bar with bags underneath his eyes are prominent, his face pale and sunken.

Starts dressing like those artsy bohemian kids from New York until the kid from Bumfuck Indiana is gone doesn’t tell anyone about the Yvonne Elliman tape he keeps hidden in his collection and listens to when he’s alone and high on coke.

Unable to sleep for the last three days and the worms threaten to crawl on his skin, no one asks about the black t-shirt he uses as a pillowcase that doesn’t let anyone touch.

Every time he’s at some bar, Izzy keeps his eyes wide open in case he sees the redhead dancing on the stage or drinking in a booth; he remembers the exact words of everything Izzy has to say if he sees him again.

When he’s drunk enough, he will tell the story of a redhead Izzy met and fell in love with to anyone willing to listen; and before he knows it, it’s been seven months since that damn trip, Bill’s face still fresh in his mind like a wound that refuses to heal, and the brunet can help but poke and prod at it.

Can perfectly see his sullen and pained face all alone on the bus station; every night, when the heroin is running wild through his veins, he can see those sad eyes.

He blames himself for leaving someone that made him so happy, the only boy he’s ever loved, few people tasted that kind of love, and he will never have a chance to feel it again.

Tracii’s in front of him talking about something but Izzy can’t find the strength to concentrate on the words coming out of his mouth.

They’re at the third bar for the night; the flower child gets up and adjusts the paperboy cap on top of his head; before going to the bar and asking for something stronger.

When he bumps against a figure, his drink spilling and landing all over his white half-buttoned shirt, he feels a leather-clad hand on his shoulder, Izzy’s ready to fight if he has to; people underestimate his strength because of how skinny he is.

He feels a hand on his shoulder and turns back to find a taller blonde guy, who laughs and grins; his gaze focuses on its features and finally recognizes that face.

It’s Duff, his hair is significantly longer and bleached blonde, a padlock rests heavily on his long neck, he’s wearing smudge eyeliner, it’s still the same punk from seven months prior.

“Izzy, is that you? Oh man, the guys will not believe it,” the blonde wraps his arms around him and gives a tight hug; Izzy feels as if his ribs will break. “I was hoping to see you soon; we all did, especially Axl.”

The flower child wants to dismiss the blonde and keep looking for the ginger, to search for that particular face. He looks over the taller man’s shoulder, his gaze unfocused- Duff eyes him quizzically, and searches for his face.

“L. A is too big, but I’m glad to see you again,” Izzy slurs trying to not sound as shitfaced as he is; he drinks from the remaining alcohol in the white plastic cup he’s clutching, shifting his weight from foot to foot “Axl?”

Izzy knits his brows at the mention of that ridiculous name. He doesn’t know of someone named like that. The amber liquid burns his throat, but it’s a pleasant sensation, enough to keep him grounded. He licks his lips. His heart beat faster, his breathing heavy and shallow.

“Sorry, that’s how he calls himself now, but sometimes we call him Bill if he’s in the mood; I have to go but, maybe you can come to our rehearsals, jam a little, we don’t need another drummer, you may give Stevie a run for his money” Duff looks at him with a hopeful gleam in his eyes and the brunet freezes, excitement pouring in waves.

Before the blonde leaves, he grips Izzy’s shoulder, leather crinkling, and leans whispering in his ear, making him shiver.

_“He misses you…”_

They exchange addresses, and Duff finally leaves with his gaggle of friends, promising to see each other again; Izzy returns to the booth he’s sharing with Tracii, unable to think in anything but the words that left Duff’s mouth.

Rereading the crumpled-up paper and smiling like a lovesick puppy when he returns to the shitty one-bedroom apartment he’s renting.

Feels too excited to prepare his fix; he falls asleep thinking about the redhead, the blonde’s words repeating in his head.

_Bill misses him._

**. . .**

A week later, it’s raining, the pounding sound from the thunders roaring above him, illuminating the sky to a gunmetal color.

Izzy holds the black umbrella, fixes his aviators resting heavily on the bridge of his nose, and pulls the laps of his black leather trench coat over his neck.

The guitar case swings in his shoulder with a familiar weight since they stole his drum kit, rainy days like this remind Izzy of long-lost days in Lafayette; that distinctive aroma of wet grass and rain fills his nostrils.

His hair is clean after taking a shower in the apartment of one of his stripper friends, wants to look as presentable as possible for Bill.

Izzy’s cheeks turn pink; he takes a brief look at the address Duff scribbled down hurriedly on the napkin and back at the dilapidated house.

The paint old and falling off the concrete, a ruined entrance with yellowish dead grass. This is the one. He swallows and gives the door a firm rap.

He can hear shouting behind it, music and someone banging the drums; Duff is the one to answer the door, his blond locks framing his handsome face and a smile on his thin lips.

“Didn’t think you’ll come, but hey, I’m glad you’re here” Duff ushers him inside, his umbrella dripping with water.

Inside, the house is barren. There is a moth-eaten couch; and a broken T. V that has a big crack on the screen; Steven’s behind his drum kit, banging excitedly at his drums, beaming brightly, it’s enough to rival the sun, and maybe he can make it rise again, it’s been raining too much.

“Hey man!, heard you were here to jam; as a fellow drummer, it’s good to see you again and alive, I bet Slash you didn’t survive here, but now I think I owe him five dollars,” Duff’s eyes widen, he’s immediately covering his mouth, the little blond keeps talking, his voice muffled.

Izzy takes the sunglasses off and leaves them dangling on the collar he’s wearing, looks at the blonds sheepishly.

“Not a drummer anymore,” Izzy announces and lets down his guitar case, folding his arms. The scene before him is so familiar he feels so much better.

It’s good to know some things don’t change, it’s funny, the trip feels like it happened a million years ago but it’s just been seven months.

Duff lets go of the little drummer, the little blond gasps dramatically, a hand on his chest, the taller punk disappears in the kitchen, he emerges back balancing three cans of cold beer in his big hands, handing one to Izzy and Stevie.

“Tell us, Izzy, what have you done in the great City of Los Angeles, good things I want to believe,” Duff nudges him in the ribs and wiggles his eyebrows, the brunet doesn’t have the strength to tell the pair he hasn’t forgotten the redhead in the seven months that passed and it’s feeling miserable since he left him.

“Just doing a little something of everything, I also have a band, but it might go nowhere,” the flower child takes a sip of the beer.

Its bitter, familiar taste is satisfying on his tongue. The taller blond sits down on the couch and pats down so Izzy can sit; Steven crashes to the left side, hitting his head on the piece of wood that’s keeping the couch from falling apart.

“Well, Axl… I mean, Bill and Slash went out but, I’m sure they’ll be here soon, meanwhile…” Duff gets up and reaches for his bass, plugging it on the amp and grinning broadly. “show us how good you are.”

Izzy takes out his Gibson, the white paint bright and smooth on his calloused fingers. He doesn’t have to plug it; sounds perfect without the amp.

The strings underneath his digits are so right; that’s the only thing powerful enough to make him forget the constant ache in his heart.

Their little jamming session is interrupted by the front door creaking; the brunet could recognize those curls anywhere. A warm smile curves on his lips.

“Jeez! Axl, you don’t have to fucking kick the damn door every time,” Slash shakes his head, little drops of water falling from his curls. “Is the T. V not enough for you, dumbass?”

“Don’t be such a baby, Slasher; I said I’ll get another one” behind the curly-haired boy, Izzy could barely see the silhouette of the redhead.

That voice, it’s the same that has been haunting every waking moment for months, low, deep and rich, honey over cornflakes, if his ribs weren’t protecting his racing heart, it’s going to shoot off his chest, he feels the nervousness pouring in his back.

“That was a month ago, fucker” Slash says condescendingly, takes the wet leather jacket off and leaves it on a broken chair; he goes to ruffle Steven’s hair and greets the bassist with a chaste kiss on his lips. “holy fuck, the dead walk among us.”

Slash immediately extends his hand to Stevie, and the drummer huffs but takes out the contents of his pockets.

It’s just some quarters and fuzz; Slash rolls his eyes under his mane of curls and sits beside Duff. As soon as the words fall from the curly brunet, the redhead enters the house, cowboy boots muffled on the carpeted floor.

“The fuck’s going on here?” questions the redhead with an arrogance lacing his words, taking his pink leather jacket off.

His hair is longer, reaching his shoulders, although it looks unwashed, Izzy still thinks it’s that perfect shade of red he remembers.

His cheekbones are more pronounced and sharper, his face looks less full, jawline more define, the brunet shouldn’t think he looks as handsome as seven months ago, Bill looks like a starved animal, but to him, there’s no more beautiful creature in the world than the broken, sad boy in front of him.

“Ax, I know you want to add another guitarist, hear him, he’s amazing” Duff’s soft voice wakes him up from his trance, Bill- no Axl turns and finally addresses the figure on the couch.

Izzy tilts his head and watches how the redhead’s Adam’s apple bobs in his pale neck. He opens his mouth, but after some seconds, he snaps it shut again, a hand covering his mouth.

The brunet can watch the exact moment the color drains from his face; he’s looking paler, eyes glassy, purses his lips in a thin line, rubbing at his eyes to keep the tears from falling.

He can’t forget when the brunet left him at the bus station, broken-hearted after everything that happened between them; the boy in front of him doesn’t know the tears he shed on lonely nights.

Because of the haunting thought, he could never be enough for someone as magnificent as Izzy kept clutching him with its sharp claws.

“I don’t know what you were thinking, but this is bullshit, McKagan” Axl glares at the taller blond and stomps through the house, grabbing the jacket again and storming off into the streets, rain pouring coldly on his back until all they can see is a pink spot in the distance.

The silence that has befallen is deafening, awkward. Izzy could cut the tension with a razor. They look at each other; Duff groans, pacing around the living room; he turns to look at the flower child with a crestfallen expression on his features. He almost looks apologetic.

Izzy already made that stupid decision; he won’t let the redhead get away from him this time; he grabs the umbrella and starts running in the same direction of the ginger, his boots sounding against the wet concrete. He feels hopeless, but if the smaller boy is going to reject him, at least now he can move on and start to healing.

He can’t see him anywhere, but he has a hunch that the fireball is inside the dive bar right in the corner; the flower child enters, his hair is dripping, and his breathing is labored.

The redhead’s sitting on a barstool with a cold beer in front of him, his face obscured by his red, shiny hair; Izzy’s breath hitches. He feels nervous just like that first time he met him inside the Chevelle and was surprised by his alluring beauty under the streetlight.

“I would have preferred if you rejected me that time at the bus station,” says Bill as soon as the brunet takes a seat next to him, sipping the beer in his hand; he glances darkly at the taller boy, there’s a hint of warning in his eyes, his jaw is tight “it would have been easier to forget you.”

Axl wants to be mad, lash at the flower child, but all anger and resentment dissipate when he realizes how much he misses the flower child.

The rain took his lover away, and it brought him back to him; he wants to wrap his arms around him and never let go; what if the brunet didn’t miss him as much.

When Axl stares into the stormy eyes of the brunet, he sees the same conflict in those big eyes, Izzy’s big speech forgotten in the back of his mind. The brunet’s mind is blank as the ginger stares at him.

“I think it’s better if I leave” Izzy stands; he doesn’t want to go back to that house but, he left his guitar before he can leave all of this behind; he feels leather-clad fingers on his wrist, he turns to find Axl, glassy eyes and sniffing.

“Don’t leave, I don’t want you to leave, never wanted you to” Axl stands up and walks towards the taller boy, his tight leather pants cling low on his slim hips; Izzy can see the beginning of the V shape in his hips.

The redhead tilts his head and eyes carefully his face, making sure that the boy in front of him is the same he fell in love with during the summer. He gives a sorrowful smile.

Axl wraps his arms around the brunet’s neck’s, hugging him tightly, hiding his face in the crook of his neck, knocking the wind out of his lungs.

Izzy feels a lump in his throat and finally embraces the smaller boy, closes his eyes, and captures this moment in his memory, close to the other things he holds in his heart.

Time stops, all Izzy can feel is the ginger’s lithe body between his arms, there’s no other place he rather be. He never felt so alive than on those days on the road, after that he’s never been the same, trying to replicate the euphoria with the drugs but falling short, never close to that sensation of loving and finally be loved; he doesn’t care what people around them has to say.

“Didn’t want to leave you, but fuck, I was so scared, I still am, and maybe I’m a coward, never loved anybody else like this,” Izzy tilts Bill’s face, green eyes like the sea foam of the beaches lacing with brown, stormy eyes

Izzy’s voice breaks with the unshed tears; Axl wipes the stray drops from his smooth cheekbones.

“I’m scared too, no one stays long enough, and If you were to leave me, I wouldn’t handle it,” his voice is frantic, anxiety rising and constricting his chest like tendrils.

The flower child looks at the beautifully sad, broken-hearted boy; in front of him, the only one he’s ever loved, the boy that changed him make him feel so alive, caressing the apples of his cheeks, his stormy eyes seem to always speak for him when words cannot come out and it’s all the reassurance that Axl needs.

“What if this doesn’t work?” hiccups the redhead, and it makes the flower child’s heart-shattering. He wants to be the one to make Axl laugh, happy. Not cry and cause more grief than what he has to endure.

“We’ll make it work,” whispers Izzy in his ear and brings their foreheads closer together. For seven months, he longed for this moment; to be close to the redhead.

The brunet stops any lingering doubt by kissing him deeply and tenderly on the lips; the familiarity of his lips brings back so many memories.

This time Izzy swears he can see sparks behind his eyes, and his heart soars with love; it may burst from it if he dies now, he would be happy.


End file.
